


rooted in you

by gloxinie



Category: A.C.E (Beat Interactive Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Hanahaki Disease, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-09-02 10:28:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16785136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloxinie/pseuds/gloxinie
Summary: After all, the most beautiful flowers bloom in the unlikeliest of places.





	rooted in you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blackbluewoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackbluewoo/gifts).



> happy!!! birthday!!! quinn!!!!! may this birthday be ur birthdayiest birthday yet~  
> i know i said funny angst but i ended up just writing angst angst. sorry? to be fair, you hurt me so much you don't get to complain  
> i hope you enjoy this offering öwö pls stop making me suffer now thanks

Junhee follows the pendulum of their grandfather clock with his eyes, idly spread over the couch.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Byeongkwan still isn’t home.

It’s not like Junhee is particularly controlling or needy. Byeongkwan can go do whatever he wants, but… it’s late. He chances another glance at the clock, the arms of which now mockingly tell him it’s way past eleven at night.

Usually, Byeongkwan would be home by eight at the latest.

Junhee sighs, struggles his way off the too-soft couch, and slouches over to the kitchen. He’s left a potion brewing in one of his tiny cauldrons on the stovetop; when he lifts the lid, it blubbers at him in commiseration, a little more viscous than ideal. Junhee grabs a ladle, gives it a few counter-clockwise stirs, adds a sprig of mint, and stares down at his hands for a good minute.

Realistically, he knows that just waiting around for Byeongkwan to come back won’t do him any favours . He should sleep – he needs to accept deliveries to the store at six, and a sleep-deprived him never does remember how many bushels of thyme he’d ordered, or where he’d put his ledger of orders. But how can he, when he’s just so  _ worried _ ?

From outside, the moon shines through sheer curtains that had once belonged to Byeongkwan’s mother, bathing the kitchen and hallway behind him in a silvery glow. It’s quiet beyond the incessant tick-ticking of the clock over in the living room and the cauldron quietly bubbling to itself, and the old wooden floorboards creaking softly under Junhee’s bare feet.

It’s cold. He makes no move to cover himself up any more. After all, it’s going to be spring soon, and then everything will be warmer and better.

Somehow.

Junhee starts when he hears someone fumbling with the lock to their apartment door. For a split second, he goes on the defensive, grabs blindly for a knife or an arcane focus or both, until he makes himself remember.

_ It’s probably just Byeongkwan, _ he tells himself,  _ no need to get all bristly. _

(It better be Byeongkwan. Looking at his phone, screen too blue and too bright, he realises it’s a quarter to twelve. Even though the time passed like molasses, it feels like he just began to notice his absence a minute ago.)

The front door opens, and a clearly exhausted Byeongkwan shuffles in, the doorframe and the wall bearing most of his weight as he toes his shoes off. “Hey,” he calls, waves at Junhee lazily, “I thought you’d be asleep by now.”

“Uh,” Junhee replies intelligently, then clears his throat, takes a breath, and makes his way through the cramped apartment towards him. He almost stubs his toe on his crystal ball cabinet, and steps on one of Byeongkwan’s small Pokémon plushies that don’t fit on the bed on the way there. “Yeah,” he continues, and bends down to put Byeongkwan’s shoes neatly on the shoe rack. Byeongkwan just rolls his eyes and hangs up his jacket. “You’re back late.”

“I went out with some new friends,” Byeongkwan explains, and stretches. “Remember Hangyeom and his group? The guy I met last week at the store?”

Junhee does, in fact, not remember. He’s pretty sure he’s never heard that name in his life.

Instead of bringing that up, he says “I hope you had fun,” and returns to the bedroom, Byeongkwan in tow. Even to his own ears, that sounded clipped and awkward, but his partner doesn’t seem to notice – he just hums and grabs for his pajamas.

Their bedroom isn’t particularly impressive, but it’s homey, the essence of both of them mixed together until there’s no beginning or end to either. There’s Byeongkwan’s plushies on one side of the bed and piled on the floor beyond, there’s one of Junhee’s socks tangled with one of Byeongkwan’s, there’s the two really shitty-looking pots they’d made during a couple’s pottery class a year ago. It all speaks to their years of history together. And in the midst of it, skin almost silver-white under the late winter moon, Byeongkwan changes into his sleepwear.

Junhee averts his eyes, shakes his head, and does the same.

Even with Byeongkwan being so different today, him immediately closing his eyes upon climbing into the bed surprises him. Usually they wouldn’t do that, usually they would…

“So, uh, what did you guys do?”

Byeongkwan shrugs, the quilted bed covers dragging lazily across his shoulders. “Can we talk about that tomorrow?” he asks, exhaustion punctuated with a yawn. “I’m kinda tired, and you probably are too.”

Junhee is, he won’t deny that. And yet, just going to sleep feels so foreign suddenly. The covers are still chilly to the touch, and for a split second he fears they’ll never warm up.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. G’night, Jun.”

“...Okay. Good night, Kwannie.”

Byeongkwan smiles at the nickname, reaches over to squeeze Junhee’s hand shortly, and then is out like a light.

Junhee, for his part, can’t sleep.

That, too, is not entirely new. Junhee has always struggled with that, in spite of all the sleep charms and potions he could think of conjuring up. ASMR helps, sometimes, but his headphones are all the way on the other side of the room, plugged in Byeongkwan’s laptop. The weight of someone sleeping next to him helps too, other times, but Junhee looks down at Byeongkwan’s hand, having slipped out of his grasp when he’d fallen asleep, and decides that it, too, is out of his reach.

A sudden shiver grips his body, and he wraps both his arms around himself. His thick flannel shirt doesn’t seem to help any, and he briefly wonders if there’s a draft coming in from outside somewhere until his thoughts return back to Byeongkwan, peacefully unaware of the world.

“Where were you?” he mutters into the still air of the bedroom. “Why didn’t you text me? You really worried me, you know.” All things he should say to his face. All things he’d rather smother in the silence he spoke them into.

Beside him, Byeongkwan smacks his lips and exhales heavily.

“Yeah?” Junhee whispers, then chuckles at himself. Look at him, pretending to be holding a conversation like this when he really should be asleep already. He slides down, covers himself with the blanket properly, and reaches out to ruffle Byeongkwan’s chestnut brown hair, watches it flop back into his face.

“Good night,” he repeats, throat itching, and tries his best to sleep.

Just as Junhee thought, the next morning he’d rather die than get out of bed.

“Come on,” Byeongkwan whines from where he’s wrapped both his arms around one of Junhee’s, trying to drag him out of bed. “Sehyoon will be here in like twenty minutes, and you know he doesn’t like it when you’re late.”

“Sehyoon can wait three minutes,” he grumbles into the pillow. There’s silence following that, a brief pause, then an annoyed huff before he feels Byeongkwan kicking at his side.

“Come on,” his partner says, “it’s really your own fault for being up so late yesterday. There’s coffee in the pot, so just stand up and be a functional person.”

Wrong, Junhee wants to say. It’s your fault, Junhee wants to say, a little resentment set deep into the grooves of his heart, but the last thing he wants to do is start an argument. He gets up, then, sluggish and slow, and bumps Byeongkwan’s shoulder with his as he passes him by to the kitchen. There indeed is coffee in the coffee machine (and not in one of his potion cauldrons this time), which Junhee is grateful for. He pours himself a cup, grabs an apple out of the bowl of fruit on one of the kitchen counters, and catches Byeongkwan’s expectant eyes.

“What?” he asks, because he has no idea what Byeongkwan would want from him.

“I… nevermind,” Byeongkwan huffs and reaches past him to get a mug of his own from the cabinet. Junhee shuffles to the side so he can get his own coffee. “So, any interesting events planned for the shop today?”

“Not really. I have the ‘baby’s first potions’ class next week, and the warding runes workshop the week after that, but the next few days are going to be pretty quiet.”

“Hmm.” It’s clear to Junhee that he’s not really listening. The itch in his throat, never really gone after last night, worsens. “Well, good luck with that. Do we need anything from the store?”

“Milk, we’re almost out.”

“Alright. Text me if anything comes up?”

_ Can you do the same? _ “Sure,” he says. “Have fun at work.”

“You too.” Byeongkwan sets down his mug, adjusts his tie, and goes in for a hug. It catches Junhee a little off-guard, the almost uncomfortable heat pressed to his side, and he only manages to loosely wrap an arm around Byeongkwan’s shoulders before his partner extricates himself and leaves.

Gone, just like that.

Junhee realises he didn’t even kiss him goodbye. He realises Byeongkwan didn’t whine for a kiss like he used to.

He clears his throat, something abrasive scratching it from the inside, and checks up on his potion  – still simmering away, a little more blue than it should be  – before getting dressed and making his way down to the shop. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think something was squeezing his lungs together from the way he gets out of breath on his way.

The shop is about as cluttered as the apartment upstairs.

Byeongkwan complains sometimes when he can’t find the remote from under the pile of runing equipment on the coffee table, but this really comes with the territory of living with a magic practitioner. There’s a lot of materials involved, especially when you spread yourself as thin as Junhee does, wanting to do everything at once and wanting to provide everything for every kind of witch at his store.

Not that he’d actually ever be successful with that. Instead, he has resigned himself long ago to stocking the absolute basics and some beginners supplies. Anything more specific than that he can provide only on a special order basis. It pains him, not having every imaginable kind of ingredient available for those seeking his aid, but it’s the way things must be run.

(At least he never skimps out on advice when a customer ends up not finding what they need.)

When he goes to unlock the back door, Sehyoon is already there, leaning against his deep blue motorbike, helmet tugged low over his head. There’s an air of displeasure radiating from his stance, from the way his arms are crossed tightly in front of his chest.

“You’re late,” he tells Junhee as soon as he opens the door for him, then turns to grab a crate strapped to the bike and carries it inside. “I almost froze to death outside.”

“No, you didn’t, it’s been like one minute.”

“Yeah, in winter.”

“Early March isn’t winter.”

Sehyoon rolls his eyes, plops down the crate, and produces a receipt slip out of thin air. “This all what you ordered?”

Junhee casts a quick glance over the entries, nods, grabs for the wallet in his back pocket and gives Sehyoon his money. “You can come back whenever for the crystals I promised,” he tells him.

“Sure. See you next week.” Sehyoon gives a little half-wave, Junhee returns it, and they both go back to their respective occupations.

When the door slams shut behind Junhee, he allows himself to shiver and rub his arms a little. It really is pretty cold outside, Sehyoon wasn’t lying. Maybe he should make sure to pick up the delivery earlier next week, he resolves as he goes about unpacking the special orders for the week.

The early morning is always slow, to the point where Junhee allows himself to sneak upstairs and get a second quick cup of coffee in. It’s cold, and it tastes gross, but it helps keep him awake; Junhee is way past his anti-coffee days, but he still drinks his with more milk and sugar than actual coffee, just to escape the bitterness of it. (Byeongkwan drinks his black, which has horrified him since they’d known each other.) Only a few people come in this early, most of them being customers picking up advance orders, which isn’t surprising. The real foot traffic starts around noon, when all the sleep deprived magic users finally roll out of bed and decide to restock whatever they’d wasted during their moon-induced nightly bender. Frankly, Junhee has not once met a witch who was also a morning person, himself included, which probably says a lot about them as a group of people.

As expected, he does see more customers once the sun is properly up, not that it’s particularly visible behind the thick cover of clouds They keep tracking muddy snow into his shop and dirtying the floorboards, which is maybe the only really frustrating part about winter.

Well, that, and the damn cold.

“Is your heating broken?” asks Donghun from where he’s trying to decide which sprig of dried lavender looks the best. Junhee knows he’ll just end up buying a whole bundle, like every time he comes in. He doesn’t even want to know what he uses them for, anymore.

“No,” he answers, busying himself with weaving a protective ward into a scarf. “The space is just too big to be heated properly, I think.”

Donghun casts a doubtful eye at all the clutter surrounding him. “This space is smaller than my bedroom.”

“Stop bragging about how rich you are and pay for these, already.” For some reason, Junhee can’t quite convey his usual done-with-your-shit attitude, because he knows Donghun is right. The shop is tiny, all things considered. So why is it never warm anymore?

The itch in his throat deepens, makes himself known; ever present now, a reminder of… something he’s not aware of yet.

Or something he doesn’t care to be aware of.

Junhee has a lot of time to think, tending to the shop. And while he’d usually read, or busy himself with things more productive or pleasant, his thoughts keep returning to Byeongkwan today.

Not in a good way, either, rather in one that makes him shiver miserably. He hasn’t heard from him all day, and while that’s  _ fine _ , that’s  _ okay _ , it’s not like he requires hourly check-ins from him to be sure he’s not off cheating somewhere, but he can’t help but remember when they’d send each other random texts throughout the day; whenever Byeongkwan saw a dog at his workplace or Junhee found anything even closely resembling a heart in the store. It’s maybe a little cheesy, or dumb, but he genuinely enjoyed those. These days, though, they’re both a little too busy to take the time to do something like that.

Junhee’s fingers twitch towards his phone, laying innocuously sandwiched between the cash register and a little basket filled with quartz pens. Maybe he could… he did have a very weirdly shaped piece of jasper in the crate Sehyoon brought, maybe he could…

On second thought, no. He clenches his hand into a fist, takes a deep breath, and turns away from the phone.

After all, he’s not sure if Byeongkwan would even appreciate his text, or if he’d just be bothering him while he’s busy with more important things.

Junhee coughs; the rough ache in his throat feels like it’ll kill him one of these days.

And it comes to a head, then, with this: Junhee rushing back upstairs, the pain and lack of air driving tears into his eyes. Junhee knocking over a stack of books on his panicked, frantic way to the bathroom. Junhee, hacking and coughing, expelling three bloody, short, white petals onto the tiled bathroom floor.

He stares until his vision swims with more than just the tears.

The itch in his throat has not abated.

Junhee barely makes it through the rest of his workday. He ends up closing early, knowing that nobody will likely come in during the last fifteen minutes of the regular opening hours anyway, staggers upstairs, and falls straight into bed again, shoes and all. He still feels a little dizzy, a little disoriented, and a lot like he doesn’t want to face what had happened.

He lifts a hand to his throat and squeezes lightly. It still feels like there’s something lodged in there, and something growing far beyond, and Junhee isn’t an idiot. He knows what this is. He knows what this means.

Does he, though? Or rather, can he face what this means?

Junhee sits up with a huff, then dissolves into another coughing fit, one that brings blood but no new petals, which at the very least is a good sign. His chest still rattles, his lungs still sting, and, frustrated, he wipes a fresh set of tears from his eyes. He’s not even crying, he doesn’t want to either, it’s just his shit body that’s…

Ugh.

He needs to not think about this. Resolutely, he wipes his mouth and hand with a tissue, then wanders into the kitchen to check if there’s any pain medication left. There isn’t, but when he goes to check on his potion, he realises he’d forgotten to take it off the heat when he needed to, and now it’s been reduced to a dark brown, almost solid mass, barely even bubbling anymore.

Junhee stares at the little cauldron, cries in frustration and sends it flying across the kitchen.

He immediately regrets it when it clatters against the wall uselessly, leaving nothing but a little circle of soot on the wall and a little indentation in the cauldron. None of the would-be potion even spills out, so tightly it is baked into the very bottom of its container. Still, white-hot shame washes over him, compelling him to clean up quickly and not think about this again. He really isn’t this violent when he’s angry. He doesn’t know what came over him, he justifies to himself, it must be the stress from…

Well.

Whatever.

Byeongkwan is home on time today, and Junhee almost wishes he wasn’t, because he’s stuck in the bathroom with his head in the toilet bowl when he hears the key turn in its lock.

“Hey!” Byeongkwan calls, followed by the thump of his bag settling on the ground. Junhee forces himself to take a deep breath, force down the blood and bile still stuck in his throat, and right himself up.

“Hey!” he calls back, flushes the toilet, splashes some water in his face, and forces a smile on his face. It might not be the most convincing one, but it’ll have to do.

When he exists the bathroom, Byeongkwan is in the living room, switching idly between TV channels. “Come sit,” he says, and pats the space next to him, wasting no time in getting his head nestled on Junhee’s shoulder once he does. He can feel the heat of Byeongkwan’s body like this, almost searing in its intensity, starkly contrasted against the cold of the air. While he welcomes it, it almost makes him feel uncomfortable, like something he’s once enjoyed but is now not quite used to anymore. Which is dumb, they do this all the time, he feels warmth all the time. Right?

Byeongkwan chatters idly about his day, trying to fill the nooks and crannies of silence that the TV can’t reach, but there’s static in Junhee’s head, and he barely processes any of it, so focused is he on the scratching pain in his throat and all the way down his windpipe. He doesn’t notice how Byeongkwan asks if they want to go to bed until he repeats himself, doesn’t really remember getting to the bedroom and changing his clothes. The fog in his head almost makes him forget about Byeongkwan leaning over to kiss him goodnight before rolling over to go to sleep, and that is his biggest regret of all.

Sitting there, watching Byeongkwan sleep peacefully, face tilted towards the ceiling, Junhee finally breaks. Fear clutches at him, makes him curl up, makes him stuff a fist in his mouth to keep down his sobs. Still, though, he can’t make himself leave Byeongkwan. He can’t, he needs to… he doesn’t know, but he needs to be close, like this. Even if this closeness only means something to one of them.

Hanahaki happens to those suffering from unrequited love.

Junhee loves nobody but Byeongkwan.

The meaning of this is rather clear to him.

Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t sleep at all that night.

When Byeongkwan wakes up, he gives Junhee this wary look that Junhee absolutely doesn’t like. It makes him feel like he’s on the defensive, like he needs to somehow justify himself so Byeongkwan won’t worry, so he puts on his best smile, assures Byeongkwan he’s all right, and proceeds to cough up two handfuls of sunflower petals the second he closes the apartment door behind him.

The bathroom smells pungently of the metal stench of blood, hanging in the air like an omen, but Junhee can’t really bring himself to care as he flushes the toilet, watching the bright yellow petals disappear all at once. Really, the situation is quite clear to him. Byeongkwan will break up with him at some point, and likely soon. It’s frankly a foregone conclusion; Byeongkwan, if anything, passionately pursues whatever it is he wants, is someone fiercely true to himself. If he’s fallen out of love with Junhee, that means he won’t put up with him much longer. He’ll leave, and pursue whoever it is he feels for now, if there is anyone like that. And if there isn’t, he’ll leave to focus on himself.

Either way, his time with him is limited. And as such, Junhee can’t afford to worry him, or alert him to the fact that he knows it’ll be over soon. Once Byeongkwan is ready, he’ll let him go, but until then, a selfish part of him wants to hold on as tightly as he can.

And if it hurts him, well, that doesn’t really matter. After all, he has to be responsible for driving Byeongkwan away from him like this. Whatever it is he did… the flowers are his payment. He just has to accept that.

He just wishes he could hold on for a little longer.

The thing about Hanahaki is, even if you hide the flowers, the stems will always remain.

Luckily for Junhee, the petals claw their way up his throat primarily during the late mornings, around the time he watches Byeongkwan leave for work, when the door closes between them like a barricade. That’s fine, he can deal with that and he can deal with taking quick breaks during work to throw away another set. He’s used to it.

The vines and stems and leaves and roots, however, expanding to fill out his lungs, carry effects that are less easy to conceal, even with all the magical aids he can think of. Byeongkwan thinks he’s caught the flu and tries to convince him to take days off, but Junhee thinks he’ll actually drive himself mad if all he did was sit in bed and wait for him to come home. So he insists he’s alright, drags himself down the stairs, and does his job.

(Even as he accidentally almost upchucks an entire camellia into a nine-year-old’s basic warming potion.)

It’s been maybe a week of him existing like this, when Donghun sets down a jade pendant on the counter and stares at Junhee. Just looks at him. Junhee tries to slide the pendant out from under his hand to enter its price, but Donghun’s hand comes down heavily on top of it, and they both struggle with it for a second.

“What’s up?” Junhee asks airily, or as airily as he can at least; his voice has taken on a wheezy quality over the past two days, like he’s constantly out of breath. Which he is, now that he thinks about it.

“I should ask you that.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” He smiles, pleasantly, and holds it for a good two seconds until he feels a prickling in his throat. “Okay, wait, hold o-” and with that, he dissolves into another coughing fit, one that brings only two petals. He closes his hand immediately, crushes them in his palm, and conjures the smile back up. “What were you saying?”

“Junhee.” Donghun sighs. “There’s clearly something wrong with you. Talk to me.”

Junhee casts a glance over the shop, empty and quiet, and looks down at his fist, still clenched. A drop of blood is clinging to the side of his thumb, stark red in contrast to his pallid skin.

The way Donghun is watching him, there’s no way he can bullshit his way out of this.

“Yeah,” he breathes, “there is.”

“What is it?”

Junhee huffs a laugh. “I cough a lot, I’m out of breath, and I probably smell like a flower garden covered in blood. What do you think it is, genius?”

Donghun, for all his faults, is a genuine person. Still, the shock swimming in his eyes feels weird to see. Is this really so surprising to him?

“But… you and Byeongkwan?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re still together?”

Junhee nods, which makes Donghun’s face tense up in confusion that would be funny, if Junhee’s feelings weren’t quite literally trying to suffocate him right now.

Donghun reaches over to take Junhee’s hand in his. He coaxes it open gently, looks at the petals and the blood marring his palm, and sighs. “Oh, Junhee,” he says, “what are you going to do about this?”

“Wait until he leaves, then deal with it.”

Donghun’s displeased frown almost rivals that of his father for a second. “You’re not doing so hot, you know. You need to talk to him and figure this out.”

“And let him know how pathetic I am?” He laughs, slips his hand out of Donghun’s, stares at the smeared blood all over his palm. “These stupid feelings are my responsibility, not his. If I tell him, I know he’ll just force himself to love me again.”

“And you don’t want that.”

“I don’t want to guilt trip him into staying, Donghun. His life is his own. I’m not going to hold him captive in a relationship he doesn’t want anymore.” He’s trying his best not to snap at Donghun, but his friend can probably tell he’s agitated by the set of his jaw and his clipped tone. “Are you going to buy your charm or what?”

A brief pause, then: “Fine. But at least think about talking to him. Frankly, I doubt you could make him do something he doesn’t want.”

“I don’t know about that.”

Donghun’s smile, as he leaves, is sad, almost bordering on pity, and it makes burning anger bite at his chest. He doesn’t need pity. Everything’s fine, after all.

Something’s wrong with Junhee.

Byeongkwan’s been noticing it for awhile now, noticing how Junhee’s breath gets shorter, his skin gets paler. And he usually talks so much, but he’s not said a word about what’s going on with him beyond a strained smile and an assurance that he’ll get better soon.

That’s bullshit, Byeongkwan knows as much. It’s just that he has no idea what’s going on, or what to do to help.

He watches Junhee’s back as he busies himself in the kitchen, gathering dried bushels of plants from the windowsill. Under the bright white of the kitchen lamp he looks smaller than he used to, bones more pronounced, body hunched inward. Byeongkwan watches and wonders why it took him this long to see this.

Or why he hasn’t said anything about it yet.

He opens his mouth, tries to call out, but the distance between them is so wide his words stay lodged in his throat, scratching as he forces them back down. It’s Junhee who doesn’t want to talk to him, after all. He can only hope he’s seeking medical attention.

“Are you done?” he calls out to him. In the kitchen, Junhee starts from where he’d been standing still, staring at a bushel of flowers.

“Yeah. The electric kettle is broken, by the way,” he says finally, turns, and makes his way to sit next to Byeongkwan. With a wary look, he leans closer, touches their shoulders together, then their sides. Byeongkwan wants to melt into it, enjoy the physical affection that’s gotten rarer in the past year, but Junhee is just so tense it’s hard to properly lose himself in the sensation. So instead, he remains just as stiff and awkwardly changes the channel to some low-budget, ready for TV movie.

“How was work?” he tries. The question falls flat as it always does, presses down on the atmosphere in the room.

“Alright. Yours?”

“Yeah.”

They fall into silence.

Byeongkwan wants to talk about the cute dog he saw that morning, about the really funny girl who gave him a light-up pen when he made her laugh, all the little moments of levity he’s experienced that he knows he’d like; but Junhee just looks so tired, so far removed, as if his head is somewhere far away, and suddenly he doesn’t know if it’s welcome anymore. Doesn’t know if him talking has even been welcome for a long time. It’s weird, because he knows everything about Junhee and vice versa, their lives are so deeply connected, and yet he has no idea how to tell if Junhee even wants to be here anymore.

Byeongkwan frowns at himself.

“Do you want to go to bed? You should get some more rest.”

“I’m fine,” Junhee says, then shoots him a grateful glance, “but yes. It’s getting late and there’s nothing on anyway.”

Byeongkwan pointedly doesn’t mention how it’s only nine, and they’d stay up until midnight every night they could when he’d first moved in with him. Maybe it’s just them getting older, settling into their comfort zone. Not like there’s anything comfortable about how they are now.

This is what’s supposed to happen, though, he thinks to himself as he brushes his teeth, Junhee copying his movements next to him. The reflection of the fogged-up mirror distorts them both, makes them washed-out and hazy with the uncomfortable wet warmth that lingers just after a shower. This is the rut couples fall into after a while. This is how things go.

He does wish they’d at least talk more, but words are a little difficult to come by, these days.

Byeongkwan wakes up to someone retching in the bathroom. Next to him, the bed is empty, residual warmth from the body on the other side fading as he blindly reaches out to grab hold of Junhee. He’s not there.

Is he alright?

Quietly, Byeongkwan slides out of bed, following the path cast by the moon to avoid all the clutter spread out on the floorboards. The retching gets louder but also more pinched, like whoever it is (Junhee, it’s Junhee, clearly) can’t breathe.

A seed of acidic discomfort plants itself in Byeongkwan’s stomach, eating away at him with every breath he takes, and he pushes open the door to the bathroom. Inside, Junhee is bent over the toilet, clutching at it as if holding on for dear life, shaking – crying? It’s hard to tell.

The sight makes Byeongkwan’s blood run cold. Slowly, carefully, he approaches, goes down on his knees, places a hand on Junhee’s back to rub soothingly. Even through the material of his shirt, his back feels chilly, as if he’d gone outside.

“It’s okay,” he mutters to him. “I’m here. You’re fine.”

Under his touch, though, Junhee tenses up even further. Once his retching has abated, he keeps clutching the toilet bowl, blindly fumbling with the other hand to flush. Byeongkwan helps him along, and it’s only when the roar of water has stopped that Junhee raises his head.

He looks like shit, sweat-slick strands of hair stuck to his forehead, blood still dripping from his bottom lip. Weakly, he brings a hand up to wipe at his mouth, and Byeongkwan takes this moment to brush Junhee’s hair back from his face.

“You need to go see a doctor,” he tells him as firmly as he can manage, which isn’t very, considering how shaken Junhee still seems. The discomfort in him blooms into worry. Just how long has this been going on?

“I’m fine,” Junhee insists. His voice is quiet, scratchy, and it sounds like it hurts him to talk. Byeongkwan frowns, lips pressed tightly together, and pats Junhee’s cheek. His cheekbone feels a lot more pronounced, suddenly, and it scares him.

“You’re clearly not fine, just–”

“But I  _ am _ fine!”

“You really are not! Listen, I don’t care if you don’t want to tell me what this is, but please,  _ please _ tell a doctor. Please,” Byeongkwan implores, reaching down to take one of Junhee’s cold hands in his.

Junhee’s sigh rattles around in his ribcage. They’re both quiet. After what feels like an hour, Byeongkwan gets up to get a towel to wipe away the blood that had just about missed its mark.

When he feels like he’s done, he brings the towel to the sink, washes it out, and plucks a petal from its fold.

Hesitates.

Frowns.

“Junhee, did you get any fresh flowers recently?”

Junhee, from his position slumped on the ground, shakes his head. He looks absolutely miserable, and all Byeongkwan wants to do is hug him. “No,” he rasps. “Just the dried ones.”

Byeongkwan looks at Junhee, then, really looks, and really listens.

The petal between his fingers, bright orange, laughs at him mockingly.

He’s not the best with magical diseases, doesn’t read as much about them as Junhee does, but it’s not hard to figure this one out, now is it? And if Byeongkwan loves Junhee, which he does, then that means–

Absentmindedly, Byeongkwan feels bile rise up his own throat. His arms tremble, his legs feel unsteady, his heart is pound-pound-pounding in his ears, static rushing at the edges of his vision.

He crushes the petal.

“Byeongkwan…” Junhee starts. He sounds so very tired.

Byeongkwan, for his part, has never felt more awake.

“I… need to leave,” he says, words choked by fear-anger-betrayal-embarrassment. “I… we need to give each other space. I need to go. We’ll. We’ll talk tomorrow. Or later. I’ll text you. I’ll…” He devolves into incoherent babbling, trying to string a semi-coherent sentence together as his still trembling hands pull out an overnight bag, clothes, a spare toothbrush, his laptop. He doesn’t think he can manage to change his clothes right now, so all he does is grab a jumper and a jacket.

“Junhee, I…” he begins, but pauses. Looks behind himself.

Junhee’s not moved from the bathroom. Through the ajar door, their eyes meet, and Junhee looks away. His sweaty hair falls in front of his face again.

Right. Byeongkwan gets that message loud and clear. He doesn’t try to say anything else; he just puts on his shoes and his jacket and leaves.

The door falls shut heavily behind him.

When he steps out of the building, darkness greets him. At some point it had started snowing again, white flecks whipping through the air, hovering around neon-orange street lanterns. It crunches under his boots as he starts walking down the street. Somehow, he doesn’t register the cold. He doesn’t really register anything.

Unbidden, he can feel tears biting at his eyes, but he grimaces and roughly rubs the heel of his hand over them.

_ Just keep it together _ , he tells himself.  _ Bear it for now. _

Byeongkwan crashes at Yuchan’s for the night.

“What?” comes Yuchan’s voice from the intercom once he’s buzzed up a storm. “Who’s there?” He sounds tired, and Byeongkwan feels bad for disturbing him, but he really has nowhere else to go, so.

“Hey,” he says, “it’s Byeongkwan. Can you let me up?”

“Oh.” There’s a beat of silence, cut through by the buzzing of the door.

Upstairs, Yuchan is waiting for him, leaning against the doorframe. He’s in his pajamas already, a cute little cat-eared headband holding his hair back, looking as exhausted as Byeongkwan feels.

“Hey, what’s… is that an overnight bag?”

“Yeah. You mind if I crash here for a bit?”

“No, not at all,” Yuchan rushes to assure him, and takes a step back so Byeongkwan can enter. His hands flutter as he’s evidently trying to decide what to do, but then he takes his bag from him and sets it down, watching Byeongkwan take off his jacket and shoes.

“Did you come here in your pajamas?”

Byeongkwan looks down at himself, at the red silk and the white rabbits, and nods.

“Yeah.”

“But why?” Yuchan grabs his bag in one hand, his arm in the other, and drags him to the bedroom. There’s only one bed, but the two of them have slept in it so many times already that it’s almost second nature to them, like breathing, so Byeongkwan climbs in next to him, grabs for his hand. Their fingers interlink.

Byeongkwan sighs.

“Are you having trouble at home?”

“Something like that, yeah?”

“But why?” Yuchan sounds distressed, and perhaps more importantly, genuinely confused. “You two are so good together, what happened? Did you fight?”

“No.” Well. Kind of. Byeongkwan closes his eyes. “Can we talk about this in the morning?”

“Sure. Good night, buddy.” Yuchan ruffles his hair, turns to the light switch, then shuffles forward to capture Byeongkwan in a warm hug. Even though Byeongkwan is a little older, he’s always liked the safety he feels when Yuchan hugs him like that.

Today, the safety is a little more precarious, but it’s there regardless.

They sleep like that, exhausted, and Byeongkwan wishes he didn’t have to wake up tomorrow to face what had happened.

Sadly, though, he can’t just run from this.

Yuchan slides half of the scrambled eggs on Byeongkwan’s plate, sits down across from him at the rickety kitchen table, and stares him down determinedly.

“What’s going on,” he asks.

Byeongkwan, instead of answering, first shovels half his food in his mouth to give himself time. He’s not even that hungry, doubts he will be after what happened, but he knows he needs the energy.

“I…” he finally begins after he’s done, “I don’t… Junhee. He’s sick.”

Yuchan frowns. “And that’s why you ran to sleep here in the middle of the night?”

“He’s not…” Byeongkwan twists his fingers together. There’s still a tremor running through them, a slight one, and he realises how on edge he still is. “He’s not regular sick.”

“Then what is it?”

“Hanahaki.”

Saying it out loud this bluntly is weird. Putting it out into the world, where it remains without a chance to take it back and repress it.

He usually doesn’t think so much about the things he says, but this… is uncomfortable.

Yuchan stares at him.

“So he’s…?”

“Fuckin’ apparently, Yuchan, I’m sorry but I didn’t really feel like asking,” Byeongkwan snaps, the pounding and heat and static at the back of his head overtaking him for a moment.

Yuchan stills. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

“No, I shouldn’t have snapped. Uh. Sorry. I’m just stressed.”

“I can imagine… do you want to stay here for a few more days?”

“I’d like that, yeah.”

Yuchan reaches over the table to squeeze Byeongkwan’s hand carefully. “You’re going to have to talk to him, though, you know?” he reminds him.

“I’m aware.”

“What are you going to do?”

Byeongkwan sighs.

“Junhee is… he’s responsible. He cares a lot. He probably doesn’t want to hurt me by breaking up. But if we don’t end it and he doesn’t pursue whoever it is, then he’ll…” He stops. Even with bluntness, some words are too sharp to utter.

Yuchan shudders.

“There’s operations he could get done, though…”

“He won’t. And I don’t want him to lose his love like that.”

“Even when it means losing him?”

“At least he’ll live and be healthy,” Byeongkwan tells himself more than Yuchan. “It’ll have to be enough.”

“Oh, honey,” Yuchan breathes, and rounds the table to hug Byeongkwan. “I’m sorry,” he mutters into his shoulder, “you deserve better than this.”

“I do, don’t I,” Byeongkwan agrees. But so does Junhee, he doesn’t add.

Byeongkwan is away for three days.

Junhee expected as much. There’s no contact from Byeongkwan’s side beyond a brief text on the third day, informing Junhee that he would be home soon. Junhee could call him, or just go over; after all, he knows Byeongkwan would be at Yuchan’s in a situation like this.

(Or does he? Byeongkwan’s changed lately. Maybe this part of him has changed as well.)

True to his word, Byeongkwan returns towards evening, looking very much like he’d prefer to be elsewhere. Junhee takes a deep breath, steels himself, and sits down on the armchair in the living room, watches Byeongkwan sit down awkwardly on the couch.

The clock ticks in the background, the pendulum goes back and forth, back and forth.

“We need to break up,” Byeongkwan tells him, and while Junhee knew this would happen, it still hurts. He could argue, or plead, but for what? It’s better to let Byeongkwan be happy, he tells himself until he almost even believes it.

“Yeah,” Junhee whispers, strangled.

Byeongkwan watches him struggle, then reaches forward. The hand on Junhee’s cheek is scalding in its intensity, as is the soft kiss Byeongkwan presses on his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers against his lips, and then he grabs his plushie off the floor and leaves.

They say some things get worse before they get better, but for Junhee things just keep getting worse.

Somehow, the apartment is even colder with just him in it, without Byeongkwan’s mountain of plushies to keep him company.

Byeongkwan seeks refuge at Yuchan’s for a while, so he doesn’t have to immediately start thinking about getting a new apartment. Yuchan takes him in with a laughing mouth and pitying eyes, helps him go back to Junhee’s apartment periodically to pack up his most important belongings while avoiding the shop altogether. He just doesn’t want to talk to Junhee right now, not when he could be courting whoever it is he fell for. Byeongkwan wants Junhee to be happy, yes, but asking him to stand by when that happens… he can’t imagine that.

A small part of him is worried for him, though, and it gets bigger day by day, balloons until all Byeongkwan can think of is Junhee’s health. Is he doing better now? Is he recovering?

Is he still alive?

No, he can’t think like that.

“Do you think I’ll get it too?” he asks Yuchan one day between Fifa matches, scratching at his throat idly. It’s been a week, now, and he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about Junhee. What he’s doing, who he’s with. All in all, he’s just fucking miserable.

His throat itches in commiseration.

Yuchan gives him a critical look over. “Has anyone in your family had it?”

“One of my mother’s cousins, I think.”

“It’s not really that common to have, you know,” Yuchan explains. “It’s likely you won’t get it.”

“But I could.”

“You could. But you’re also hurting in a whole different way,” he points out, and reaches out to tap against Byeongkwan’s chest, over his heart. “You should focus on getting better from this. If you do get sick, we’ll take care of it, yeah?”

Byeongkwan does not get sick.

Two weeks have passed. Then three, and he has not heard from Junhee at all. His concern for him, pressing down upon his shoulders, tells him to go, check up on him, make sure he’s… well. Breathing, ideally.

He doesn’t have to interact with him to check up on him, does he?

It’s been twenty-three days since he walked out of Junhee’s apartment. Most of his belongings are in Yuchan’s now, packed neatly away in boxes. Some he’s left behind; not being able to look at them and stomach the happy memories they hold.

Across from Junhee’s shop, there’s a bakery. They used to go there a lot when they first started dating, used to split a slice of strawberry cake roll and just talk about everything they could think of. It still looks the same as it did then, flowers and pastels and soft bubblegum pop from white speakers.

Even the cashier remained the same.

“Oh,” Jungha says, “Byeongkwan?”

“Yeah.” Byeongkwan nods at him, and tries to not be blinded by his wide grin.

“Oh wow! Come, sit down, what would you like? Your old usual? Is Junhee coming as well?”

Whatever little bubble of happiness had risen up in Byeongkwan at the warm welcome is popped swiftly and efficiently.

“No,” he says, curtly, then: “I’d like a brownie, please.”

“Are you sure?”

Byeongkwan only nods at Jungha’s confused expression. Luckily, even though it’s so obvious the boy wants to say something, he only scurries back behind the counter to retrieve his order.

“Here you go, I guess…”

“Wait.” As Jungha goes to draw back, Byeongkwan lightly puts his hand over Jungha’s wrist; the employee stills immediately, stiff and tense. “How’s Junhee doing? Have you talked to him lately?”

“No… I mean, I heard he’s sick, but nothing beyond that…” Every word sounds more like a confused question coming from him. “Wouldn’t you know more though? I mean, you two are…”

Byeongkwan shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. Thanks.”

As Jungha leaves him be, Byeongkwan stares out of the bakery’s front window, trying to catch a glance of the goings-on across the street. Junhee’s still sick? But Byeongkwan really would have thought that he’d have pursued the one he’s in love with by now.

Unless that person doesn’t reciprocate…?

No. That’s ridiculous. Byeongkwan hasn’t met a single person who didn’t at least have a mild crush on Junhee at some point in their lives. It’s part of who he is as a person.

Byeongkwan, stubbornly, remains in his seat for the better part of the day. The snow has mostly melted here, but it doesn’t make for much of a sight; there’s so much litter laying around the area, covered by the snow and now all thawed out again. Some flowers try their best to peek their heads out in between the plastic bags and beer bottles, but it’s almost as if they’re smothered under the weight of the spring air. Still, they persist.

He wonders if Junhee’s flowers are the same.

In all these hours that he’s keeping watch, he doesn’t see anyone new entering or exiting the shop. That, in itself, is strange to him, because he would have thought Junhee’s new partner to at least visit him every now and again. What kind of partner would they be if they didn’t take some time out of their day to check up on him, after all?

The last time Byeongkwan had done something for Junhee, for example…

Byeongkwan frowns. When was that again? He could swear he bought Junhee that one type of really expensive yogurt he liked, and he could swear he could remember Junhee tracking down the hairdye he likes that’s out of production, but for the life of him he cannot tell when that would have been. Thinking about it, all the small gestures, let alone the big ones, are just… hazy. Far away.

Had they really been neglecting each other this much?

He really wants to get back to Yuchan’s, he decides. He needs time to think this over. Before he can stand, though, the bell affixed to the door of the bakery jingles, and Donghun walks in.

Huh. He hadn’t even seen him leave the shop, and he usually isn’t around these parts if not for that.

Once Donghun sees him, he immediately beelines in his direction. Jungha looks progressively more confused, maybe even a little close to tears, but Byeongkwan can’t bring himself to care, caught up in Donghun’s inquisitive stare.

“Byeongkwan,” he says, and takes a seat opposite him.

“Donghun,” answers Byeongkwan.

“Why are you here?”

Straight to the point, huh?

“I wanted to see how Junhee’s doing,” he admits. “If he’s better at all.”

Donghun glances out in the direction of the shop, and heaves a tired sigh. “Not really. I know he’s trying to keep on keeping on, but he’s really not in the best condition. He keeps refusing the surgery, too. I’m not sure what to do with him anymore.” Even halfway during his sentence, he frowns, as if he’s surprised by his own immediate openness. Once he starts, though, the words just come out of him. Byeongkwan understands; it’s hard to keep emotions like these down. Some day, no matter how hard you try, you’ll just vomit them up and then they’ll be a right mess.

“I told him to talk to you,” Donghun continues, “but obviously he didn’t.”

“You knew he was sick?”

“No offense, but he wasn’t that good at hiding it.”

Byeongkwan looks down at that, sufficiently chastised. Really, he should have been more insistent, asked more questions, made sure Junhee was alright.

At the same time, though, Junhee should have been more open with him. Should have trusted him more.

Somehow, he figures they’ve both been bad about that for a long time.

“Do you care about him?” Donghun then asks him. It makes Byeongkwan jolt, an uncomfortable wave of anxiety washing over him.

“Of course,” he answers, way too eager and way too fast, like he’s trying to prove something. The tone he uses makes him cringe at himself, but Donghun smiles at him, just for a second, and seems to almost be a little indulgent.

“You know, there’s nobody else he’s in love with.”

Byeongkwan gestures out the window. “He’s vomiting flowers, though.”

“The thing about Hanahaki,” Donghun continues, unperturbed, “is that it’s likely not all-knowing.”

Something in Byeongkwan tenses up as Donghun speaks. Ready to snap.

“There’s been some experiments, recently, that suggest the flowers bloom on their person’s feelings as opposed to some magical certainty. Usually the one suffering from them actually suffers from unrequited love, but sometimes they’ve just told themselves it’s unrequited so much that even the illness starts to believe it.”

An ache develops in Byeongkwan’s jaw, and it’s only when he hears his teeth scrape against each other does he realise he’d been clenching them.

“I think his illness is due to your relationship with  _ each other _ . That’s what’s making him suffer.”

It’s almost as if all this built-up worry and anxiety in him is clawing at the bottom of his stomach, opening up a rupture for his heart to sink through at these words, eating through his insides with acidic precision. He can’t mean that, can he? No, that would mean Byeongkwan had abandoned Junhee needlessly, and he can’t think about that, can’t…

Byeongkwan distantly feels his hands close into tight fists.

But what if it’s true, and they can reconcile again?

Somehow, in the bottomless pit of disoriented nervousness, there’s also a tiny little pinprick of hope, and Byeongkwan grabs onto it with all of his might. He can’t think about his wrongs right now, not when Junhee is probably just across the street and still in pain.

“You know an awful lot, don’t you?” he manages shakily, even though all he wants is to get up and run.

“I started researching it a little, the past week or so. Junhee didn’t want to listen to me, though. Did he get that stubbornness from you?”

“Probably.” When Byeongkwan looks down, he realises he’s shredded his napkin into tiny little pieces, fingers clenched bone-white around the remains. As he exhales, he sends them scattering across the table. One last snowstorm, he thinks to himself, and bounces his leg in agitation.

“Listen, I don’t presume to know what’s going on between you two,” Donghun impresses upon him. “All I know is that Junhee has gotten even worse since you left. Even if you two want nothing to do with each other anymore, you should at least talk to each other.”

“...Right.” Byeongkwan wants nothing less than this, wants nothing less than make himself so vulnerable, but they’ve done precious little talking as it is, and he knows they won’t be able to escape it. Not if they want to remember each other without resentment.

“I’m going to go talk to him now,” he decides. It’s near closing time for his shop, so he knows he won’t hold up the customers too much. It’s likely empty by now anyway, knowing his regulars. (And if he ignores the pent-up energy in him longer, he might just about burst.)

“Thank you,” Donghun tells him, and he sounds so potently relieved that Byeongkwan’s heart clenches. Just how bad is Junhee really doing right now?

When Byeongkwan enters the shop, after having bought Donghun a thank you muffin, it’s empty.

“Junhee?” he calls, but there’s no answer. Where could he…

Very faintly, from overhead, he hears groaning. Then, a dull thud.

“Junhee!” He knows where the stairs are, takes them two at a time up to the apartment. The front door is ajar, the lights are on, and it smells unmistakably like blood and pungent floral perfume.

When he gets to the bathroom, he sees Junhee laying on the floor. Still. Quiet. Blood drenching his front. There’s daffodils, four or five of them, growing out of Junhee’s mouth.

The shaking is back, pinpricks of heat all over his body, painful, disorienting, his vision swims–

What does he do, what does he do, what does he do.

Clumsily, carefully, he manages to call an ambulance, but his eyes do not stray from Junhee’s prone form. He doesn’t know if he’s still breathing, doesn’t want to get close to find out.

His head hurts.

He needs to… to sit down. Yes.

He keeps staring at him, even when he hears heavy steps running up the stairs.

“Junhee,” he whispers, “don’t do this to me.”

  
  


Bright.

Ow.

Junhee blinks, but his vision doesn’t clear, still blurry and glazed over. All he sees is… white. There’s light, probably, coming from somewhere. It’s uncomfortable, so he closes his eyes again and focuses on everything else instead.

His ribs still groan as he breathes, but somehow, he thinks it’s a little less painful than it was just before. Something itches under his nose, there’s a pressure against one of his arms, and something squeezing his left hand. Distantly, he can hear the steady beeping of what he assumes to be a heart monitor.

“Ugh,” he tries. His mouth is clumsy, and the inside of it tastes like metal.

Oh. Right. He almost died.

Did he die? No, this is probably a hospital, right?

“Junhee?” comes a tentative voice from above him. In response he blinks again, tries to get his bearings somehow. Slowly, his eyes adjust to the glaring light, and he looks around.

He is, indeed, in a hospital room; it’s white all around, big, empty, and almost painfully sterile. On his right, he makes out something akin to an IV drip, though he can’t read the little text printed on the paper label without his glasses. On his left, sat on a chair at his bedside, is Byeongkwan, squeezing his hand in both of his own. The sight of him, heavy shadows under his eyes, hair all mussed and clothes askew, makes his heart stutter just the tiniest bit.

Shame that the heart monitor picks that right up.

“Are you okay?” Byeongkwan asks as he hears it, suddenly ramrod straight and filled with nervous energy. “Should I get a nurse? Are you thirsty? You probably would be, I, uh, let me just–”

“‘s okay,” Junhee mumbles, and tries his best to squeeze his hand back. “What happened?”

A heavy exhale, and then Byeongkwan sits back down, slouches over. “I went to the shop to visit, see if you’re alright, and I heard you pass out upstairs, so I called an ambulance. You were in the ICU for a while, you know. The staff just allowed visitors starting this morning.”

“And you came to wait until I woke up?” It takes a while to form words, and even longer to form them with his mouth full of cotton, but Byeongkwan waits patiently, rubs his hand with his thumbs and looks at him intently.

“Yeah.”

“Why?” And suddenly, Junhee feels more vulnerable, more naked than he ever has with him.

“Because…” Byeongkwan sighs. “We need to talk about us.”

“You broke up with me. There’s no us.”

“Yeah, because I thought you’d fallen for someone else.” There’s something else Byeongkwan wants to say, he can sense it, but he bites it down. Instead, he looks out the window at the flower garden just outside. “Kinda insensitive,” he muses, “growing flowers in front of the Hanahaki wing.”

“Byeongkwan. Why would I… what do you mean?”

His… his ex, he looks down at Junhee, and there’s this intensity in his eyes that Junhee has grown unused to, so seldom has he seen it recently. “I talked to Donghun,” he says, instead of answering his question, “and he said you thought I didn’t love you anymore, and that’s why you developed the illness.”

“He did?”

“Well. He implied it. Look,” Byeongkwan presses out, “I just want you to know that… our relationship hasn’t been the best. I mean, before we broke up. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t love you, or don’t still, I just… I don’t know. I really don’t know what happened to us.”

Junhee finds out that trying to laugh is pretty painful, and that Byeongkwan’s concerned face is just as cute as he remembers.

“I thought that’s what was supposed to happen,” he admits quietly. “Going into our comfort zones.”

“I thought so too, but…” Byeongkwan trails off. Junhee, feeling a little better now, a little lighter, a little happier, runs his thumb over the scar on the side of Byeongkwan’s right hand.

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

“I do still love you, though. I’ll be better at showing you from now on, if…” And then, his sheepishness and his vulnerability catch up with him again. “I mean, if you wanted to… like. If you decide you don’t want to be with me anymore, that’s fine too, but–”

“Junhee.” Byeongkwan pulls one of his hands free to gently smooth back Junhee’s hair. “I still love you, too, and yes. I still want to. I was so worried, you know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry for your dumb body, be sorry that you didn’t talk to me,” Byeongkwan admonishes him, and then leans forward.

As it turns out, trying to hug someone in a hospital bed is a little awkward and a lot painful, but somehow, they manage for just a second. Byeongkwan pulls away much too early, concerned about Junhee’s chest and lungs, but for this short instant, Junhee lets himself enjoy Byeongkwan’s body warmth, pressed comfortingly up against him. He whines, involuntarily, when it’s over, and Byeongkwan laughs before bending down again and pressing a kiss against Junhee’s forehead.

“We really need to talk about this, though,” Junhee reminds him once the levity of the situation had settled.

“You need to rest, primarily,” Byeongkwan tells him. “Once you’re out of the hospital, we’ll do whatever it is you want, alright?”

“Can we try to be better boyfriends to each other this time?”

“Who even uses that word at our age?”

Junhee laughs, and Byeongkwan smiles down at him, all this warmth and all this attention focused solely on him, present  _ because _ of him. And at that moment, Junhee takes his first full, painless breath in a long time.


End file.
